


The Doctor Is Out

by ElenaCee



Category: Doctor Strange (2016)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8545567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenaCee/pseuds/ElenaCee
Summary: Once again, Stephen Strange needs Christine's help, but there are some things she can't fix, much to the Cloak's frustration.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware that there is a comic series with the same title. This story has nothing to do with that.

 

“Christine.”

She startled violently, even though she should probably be somewhat used to it by now. The Avengers, at least, usually used a phone to contact her when one of them needed her help. Stephen never did; he preferred to call in person.

Or, as it turned out, in astral form. And she sincerely doubted she’d ever get used to _that_ , either.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding composed and urgent at the same time. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you. I need you.”

She mock-glared at his disembodied see-through torso. “Stop apologizing, Stephen. It makes me think you’re dying, or something.”

“Not yet,” he said, with the same quiet urgency that instantly made her regret her words. “But I am wounded, unconscious, and losing blood. I also can’t tell exactly where I am - some field somewhere upstate - but I did manage to draw a simple rune three hundred yards above my position before I passed out.”

“Helicopter,” she nodded, guessing where he was going with this, already fishing her phone out of her pocket. “Why didn’t you come straight here through that orange ring thingy?”

“Tried to. Turns out opening gateways to earth over really great distances isn’t very precise. I’m glad I didn’t end up in the Atlantic Ocean, to be honest.”

She called the helicopter while he was still talking. Some things didn’t bear thinking about.

 

* * *

 

A little over ninety minutes later, his physical body was on her operating table, pale, bloodied, barely alive, his beautiful clothes torn in places and blood-soaked in others, covered by his red cloak.

When Christine tried to remove it, she encountered an unexpected snag. It didn’t budge, as if it were tacked on. “What the hell…?” she muttered, reaching for a pair of scissors. It would be a pity to have to cut it away, but…

There was a not-sound, like air displacing, that she was becoming reluctantly familiar with, then Stephen’s disembodied upper torso appeared next to his body. “It’s okay,” he said, not looking at her.

Christine had been proud of herself for having taken this one in her stride, but then, with a sense of disorientation, she realized that he was talking to the _cloak_. Which then moved, lifting off and floating away to hover nearby.

Stephen’s translucent face turned to her. “Go ahead.”

She closed her mouth, and set to work.

As once before, she was alone in the operating theater, Stephen’s astral form offering medical advice from the sidelines. She did not appreciate the déjà vu at all. She appreciated the feeling that this probably wouldn’t be the last time this sort of thing happened even less.

It took almost two hours to stitch him up. Massive trauma, but no broken bones, and he didn’t need to get his heart re-started this time, either. He did however need copious amounts of blood. The wounds looked to Christine like they had been inflicted by something wielding either really blunt knives or really big claws. Fortunately, if treated properly, such wounds would heal relatively well and without any permanent nerve damage. Stephen really didn’t need any more of _that_.

His astral form vanished about half-way through the procedure, and he didn’t wake up when Christine was finished. It would have worried her if not for his readings, which never showed him to be in any real danger.

Exhaustion, she diagnosed. Shock, and bone-deep, sustained exhaustion.

More than a little drained herself, she looked down at his face, peaceful in repose if pale and drawn from whatever he had been through. According to the numbers and diagrams on the monitor, he was stable, but Christine was still reluctant to hand him over to the nurses.

A whooshing sound behind her interrupted her thoughts. “Doctor Palmer?” an unfamiliar voice said.

Proud of herself for keeping her reaction in check this time, she turned around. “Yes?”

The Asian man in front of her, outlined by the glow of the portal behind him, wore clothes similar to what Stephen had taken to wearing lately, so Christine assumed that he was from the same cult -, sorry, of course not a cult. “Thank you for your help, Doctor,” he said. “I will take care of him now.”

She found that she didn’t like that at all. “Sorry, I can’t do that, Mr….?”

“Wong.”

“... Mr. Wong. I know for a fact that he has no living next of kin, so I can’t just hand him over to any… cultist…” She faltered. The man - Wong - was looking at her impassively, patiently, and it was throwing her off. “... Or whatever the hell you are. Sorry, no. It’d be different if he were awake and consenting to go with you. As it is…”

Wong nodded. “I see. I assure you that there’s no need to protect him from me. I’m… a friend.”

But she was unmoved. “Sorry. I’ll need to hear that from him.” Tapping her foot, she waited for Stephen’s see-through form to pick up its cue and make an appearance, but it didn’t.

Now, Wong smiled. “Very commendable. Would it help if I offered you to accompany us?” He nodded towards the swirling orange circle that was still hovering in mid-air in the back of the operating theater.

“Go through _that_?” Christine not quite squeaked. Clearing her throat, she went on, “I mean, yeah, sure. That’d work.”

She dealt with life-and-death situations on a daily basis. She’d sure as hell be able to handle a little magic.

She hoped.

 

* * *

 

They stepped through the circle, pushing the bed with Stephen strapped to it between them, the cloak following of its own volition.

Christine looked around in wonder, momentarily distracted from her worry about Stephen. This was a proper townhouse, and then some. “Wow. Nice digs.”

“Welcome to the Sanctum Sanctorum, Doctor Palmer,” Wong said, disapproval dripping from every syllable.

She grimaced. “Thank you. Um, where can we -”

“This way,” Wong said, anticipating her, leading the way towards a grand staircase.

Doubtfully, she looked at the bed with Stephen on it. The bed had wheels, but that wouldn’t help them navigate the -

Wong held out his arms, made a complicated gesture, pointed towards the bed, and it floated right off the floor.

“Right,” Christine said, trying her damnedest to keep up. Astral forms, portals, floating beds, not to mention that damned cloak…. But she had a patient to take care of. Everything else was incidental.

So she tried not to look out of any windows beyond noticing that not all of them were offering a NYC view, or at the things inside the display cases they were passing, or to notice the fact that the cloak was following her closely, practically breathing - if that were possible - down her neck.

Another corridor, and finally, they reached a door. Wong opened it by hand, which Christine almost found disappointing. Beyond lay a bedroom that was practically cozy compared to the ornate spaciousness of the rest of the place. A wooden double bed, a window overlooking a beautiful garden that might or might not be real, some shelves, a small desk and a single chair, and a wardrobe; nothing you wouldn’t expect in a bedroom - except for the dozens of books on the shelves and strewn all over the desk and half of the bed, and the jars lined up on one shelf, in which untold things moved and glowed.

It was a matter of seconds to place Stephen upon his bed, with Wong needing no instructions about how to place his hands in order to help Christine lift her patient. When Stephen was settled, Wong turned to her.

“If you are satisfied as to his safety, I can take it from here.”

It should be all right. She shouldn’t need any more assurances. And yet… “I’ll stay for a while longer,” she heard herself say. “Until he wakes up, at least. Uh, if that’s okay with you.”

Suddenly, she realized that she didn’t know anything about Stephen’s new life since he’d disappeared all these months ago. Those clothes, evil sorcerers, all the things she’d witnessed, the out-of-body-stuff, and now this house that Stephen certainly couldn’t afford considering that he was broke and didn’t even have a proper job, for Christ’s sake… and this man acting all protective and almost possessive. They didn’t… they weren’t…?

Sleep-ing to-geth-er, she heard Stephen’s voice in her head, from before an eternity ago, when things still had been normal.

The Stephen Strange she’d known then had been emphatically heterosexual. But the wounded man lying unconscious before her now, who was wearing his funny cultist clothes and had _apologized_ to her, him she didn’t know at all. He might as well be… sleeping with Wong. For all she knew.

But Wong surprised her. “I will check back in the evening, then,” he merely said. Then he smiled again. “It’s good to see that he has such a staunch friend in you, Doctor.”

She smiled, fishing for words, thrown once more for a loop. “Thank you,” she finally managed. “Uh, where am I, precisely?” She’d need to call a taxi at some point.

“177a Bleecker Street,” Wong said, moving towards the door. “You’re still in New York. But if you wish, I can open a gateway for you back to the hospital when you are ready to leave.”

“No, thanks, I’m good.” She patted her pocket, feeling her phone.

“Very well.” With a nod, Wong left, closing the door behind him.

Alone with her patient - and whatever the hell else he was to her -, Christine carefully draped the comforter over him, then sat down on the edge of the bed, taking hold of one of his wrists to take his pulse, half expecting him to startle awake at the touch.

He didn’t.

Even unconscious, there was a slight tremor in his hand that she could feel but not see. Not for the first time, she wondered what it was like for him. They had been close for a while, a long time ago, but after all that had happened since, she hadn’t felt comfortable asking him about things that were not within her purview as a doctor, things that felt too personal. She had never asked him how much pain he was in, what exactly he could and couldn’t do with his hands, or what it felt like to be aware of them trembling, always, even at rest.

_Enough. Focus._

Peering at her watch, Christine allowed herself the luxury of counting for a whole minute, finding his pulse a little elevated, but not worryingly so.

That was the moment when Stephen opened his eyes. Blinking slowly, he focused on her. “Don’t worry, I’m stable.” His voice was weak and a little hoarse, but blissfully familiar.

She smiled, relieved. “Seems so, yeah..” Leaning over him, she put a hand to his forehead before she could stop herself. “You’re a little feverish, but that’s to be expected.”

“I know. Uh, I have to go. Take care of my body while I’m away, would you?”

 _Oh. That kind of away_. She nodded, a little doubtful but determined to do her best. “Sure. How long will you be, uh, out?”

“Can’t say,” he replied. He paused, closing his eyes, visibly gathering his strength. Then, “Christine, I want you to know… if I should die, I mean, should my body give out before I come back, then I want you to know it wasn’t because of anything you did or didn’t do. There’s a connection between the body and the spirit. If the spirit dies, so will the body. And where I’m going… well, I’m not exactly gonna be playing chess.”

She felt herself go pale. “Stephen…”

“Gotta go.” His eyes closed, and he went slack.

She grimaced. “Dammit.”

With a deep sigh, she looked down at Stephen’s currently soulless body.

Soulless, but not lifeless. He was breathing, his heart was beating, but apparently there was no mind there. Did that mean he was legally brain-dead? Would his body truly die if his spirit didn’t find its way back? Or would he remain like this indefinitely, provided someone hooked him up to an IV to feed him?

 _Stop it_ , Christine, she admonished herself. _Don’t borrow trouble._

Then she almost started again when the cloak, which had been hovering at the foot of the bed this whole time, abruptly moved, floating above the bed to spread itself across Stephen’s body and tuck itself around him. It positively looked like it was snuggling in with him.

“I don’t believe this,” Christine muttered.

However, things hadn’t stopped being weird yet. As soon as the cloak brushed one of its corners across Stephen’s cheek, she could clearly see some remaining tension in his face smoothing out with what looked like relief. Which was impossible. His mind was currently elsewhere, literally. He couldn’t possibly be reacting to anything happening to his body right now. And even if he did, he was not in his body, so he shouldn’t be able to move a muscle, not even those in his face.

Unless, Christine allowed, unless the connection between mind and body went both ways. Maybe he could receive impressions from his body wherever he was now, just like his body would be affected by things happening to his astral form. Maybe if his body received comfort, he could feel it in his mind, and that would be reflected back to his body.

So, not brain-dead. And the damned cloak understood all of that.

Time for her to finally get her act together. She was not about to be outdone by a piece of old-fashioned wardrobe.

Perching one hip onto the side of the bed, she leaned over Stephen, peering at his face, then carefully reached out a hand. She half expected the cloak to do something to prevent her touch, but instead, the red cloth bunched up a little, drawing its edges away from Stephen’s face.

 _How does this thing even perceive stuff?_ she wondered. _It’s not like it has eyes or anything_.

No matter how it did it, this was clearly permission granted. Gently, she let her fingers brush Stephen’s temple, ostensibly to smooth back his hair, but really to feel the warmth of his skin, even though she had only just taken his pulse and damned well knew he was still alive.

She could already tell that, with the possibility of him dying any second for no reason she could perceive in her back of her mind, she would keep doing this every two minutes. It was going to be a long wait.

A thought came to her. Take care of my body, Stephen had said. That implied that there was something she could actively do, didn’t it? Other than watch helplessly and wince at every little sound this house made, that is.

The answer came promptly. The cloak’s deep red cloth brushed against her hand, pressing it closer to Stephen’s face. She was surprised to find that the cloth felt warm to her touch, as if it were alive.

“Hey,” she said, amused, but she didn’t pull her hand away, letting it rest against Stephen’s cheek, her hand in turn covered by the cloak.

From up close, she could see the intricate weave of the fabric. It looked exactly like cloth. It behaved like a living being.

 _What a weird world you’re living in_ , Stephen, she thought.

Their combined touch seemed to be accomplishing something, though. His breathing visibly slowed, his austere features relaxed further.

“Okay,” Christine muttered, shifting her weight to be more comfortable in this position. This she could do.

Soon, she discovered that Stephen’s body was far from inanimate, even though, by definition, it should be. Tiny spasms would flit across his face. His breathing would speed up, or slow down, his heart rate would fluctuate. He didn’t move, per se, but he obviously responded to some kind of stimuli. The fact that those stimuli impacted his mind rather than his body seemed to make little difference.

Through it all, the cloak held Christine’s hand in position, much to her amusement. “You can let go,” she finally told it, feeling only slightly silly talking to an article of clothing. “I got this.”

To her surprise, the slight pressure on her hand did ease.

“Thank you,” she said, but the cloak was still moving. One of its edges was slipping underneath the comforter, only to emerge with Stephen’s right hand wrapped in the red cloth.

“That’s his hand,” Christine said slowly, wondering what this was all about.

Bunching up, the cloak raised Stephen’s hand closer to her face.

Obligingly, she looked at it, unconsciously switching to doctor mode. The scars looked good; everything had apparently healed well. It even seemed as though the tremor was gone, but that was probably due to the fact that Stephen currently wasn’t in there sending impulses to the nerve endings and causing the muscles to spasm.

When she didn’t do anything, the cloak made an abrupt motion and raised the hand higher, somehow managing to convey annoyance at her inaction.

“Do you want me to hold it?” Christine asked, reaching out her free hand.

By way of response, the cloak placed Stephen’s hand in her own, wrapping one of its corners around their two hands.

She smiled. “Okay. If you insist.”

The cloak continued to hover as if expecting her to do something more.

At a loss, she carefully closed her fingers around Stephen’s cool ones, and then she could feel it. The tremor was still there, even now. Not visible to the naked eye, but easily felt once she touched the long, scarred fingers.

She sighed, sad at the fact that he obviously hadn’t been able to heal himself, not even with all this new power at his disposal.

After a minute or two, the cloak nudged her.

“What?” she said, now really lost. She was holding his hand, she was touching his face, what else could the cloak want from her?

The cloak nudged her again, then tightened its hold around her hand holding Stephen’s. At the same time, the corner holding her hand against Stephen’s face moved away from her hand to stroke across Stephen’s forehead in a gesture that was decidedly tender, and somehow… worried?

It came to her via channels beyond cognition. “Oh, sweetie,” she sighed, now beyond feeling silly. “I know. His hands are bad. They must hurt him. I know they tremble all the time. You noticed it too, didn’t you.” She felt a sting at the back of her eyes, both at Stephen’s tragedy and at the cloak’s incomprehensible but still very obvious worry, and her inability to change any of it.

The cloak seemed to make an affirmative motion. Then it nudged her, more forcefully.

“You want me to heal him,” she said slowly, her heart sinking.

There was another subtle yes from the cloak.

“I wish I could,” she sighed. “I tried. Many good people tried. There’s no medical way.”

The cloak extricated an edge to bunch it up and tug at her sleeve.

She felt like crying. It might be sentient, it might be an artifact imbued with powers beyond her comprehension, but still it understood so little. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

There was an abrupt motion from the cloak, very much like a small child stomping its foot, then the deep red cloth pushed an edge underneath the blanket to emerge with Stephen’s left hand clutched in its folds, holding it up to Christine hopefully.

Now, her eyes did spill over. “No, sweetie,” she said softly, blinking away the tears, “I can’t heal that one, either.”

The cloak seemed to sag. Then, it carefully placed Stephen’s hand on top of the comforter and went back to stretching itself out across him in a sad, defeated hug.

There was a pause that Christine used to fight her feelings back down and wipe her face with the back of one hand. Time to remember that she was here in her capacity as a doctor.

She had barely composed herself when Stephen gasped, his eyes flying open.

He groaned. “Ow. I knew coming back in here would be a mistake.”

Christine forced a smile. “Well, I don’t think it’s a mistake. Welcome back.”

He returned the smile with only a slight wince, which Christine took to be a good sign. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” she said with a sidelong glance at the cloak, which was slowly relaxing its hug and floating off away from the bed. With the same non-verbal understanding they had shared before, she realized that they were now allies, she and the Cloak of Levitation, whether Stephen would like it or not.

“Nothing at all.”


End file.
